


Chicken Soup for the Hunter's Soul

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Res Gestae [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Future Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: 100-2.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schmoop + the flu = exhausted love.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for the Hunter's Soul

"Woah, easy, tiger," says Sam, cringing in sympathy as a heavy stream of coughs shakes the little boy in his arms. He waits until the fit dies down, then picks up a glass from the night table. "Here, drink this." Cold, but not icy, and it seems to help. "Better?" he asks.

Zack nods, sniffles loudly until Sam finds a Kleenex and tells him to blow. The trash bin between the two beds is already overflowing, and Sam tosses one more snotty tissue on top of the pile.

By some miracle, Drew is still asleep. The poor kid feels worse than his little brother. His fever is finally down, but all it's done is shift their concern. Sam is starting to feel paranoid, but it doesn't make him any less inclined to check Zack's temperature with compulsive frequency.

"Come on," he says, voice softer than necessary. He pulls back the covers and urges Zack beneath them. Rubs his back until both boys are breathing in slow rhythm, and only then does Sam stand to leave, door clicking softly shut behind him.

 

"Andy, are you sure?" The next morning Sam barely blinks awake, and the phone feels like dead weight in his hand. "God, thank you so much. I left the file on my chair. The petition and affidavit should be right on top, and Carol has the proposed order. You shouldn't need anything else for the hearing, but let me know if the judge wants any other copies."

He breathes relief when he hangs up, sudden ping from the microwave making him jump. Instant oatmeal is something even Sam can manage without burning the kitchen down, and he sets it on a scuffed tray alongside a giant glass of orange juice. The boys are already fed and back to sleep. They won't stay down for long, but it should be long enough.

The floorboards squeak beneath Sam's feet, and he nudges the bedroom door open with his hip.

"Go away," Dean says. _Tries_ to say, more like, and it's only a lifetime of interpreting his brother in crisis situations that lets Sam understand as he adds, "I fucking hate oatmeal."

"You convince me anything else will stay down, and I'll be happy to oblige you."

Dean gives a quiet harrumph as he sits up, and Sam winces in sympathy. His brother looks terrible. Haggard and hollow, knocked flat on his ass by the bug Drew brought back from school. Sam hands him the tray and resists the urge to pick up the spoon and help. He figured out on day one that his mothering assistance wasn't appreciated.

"I'm feeling a lot better," Dean says around a mouthful of mush, making a good show of camouflaging the wrecked mess of his voice. "Maybe you could go back to work tomorrow."

"Yeah," says Sam. "And maybe pigs will take up ice-skating. In Hell."

Dean glares at him, but goes back to his oatmeal in total silence. Sam smirks, because a sympathetic smile won't be appreciated, and moves across the room in a fit of tidying. There's a Target bag in the corner by the door, fresh supplies, and he picks it up and starts digging through.

"Heads up!" he says, impressed when his brother reacts without spilling and catches the new box of tissues.

"Thanks," Dean rasps, and Sam drops a kiss on his forehead—too hot—before leaving his brother alone with his misery.

 

The crisis by the next day is they're running low on canned soup. They're out of everything but tomato, and Sam's not sure how long he can keep serving it before the troops mutiny.

Problem is, Sam doesn't want to leave the house to buy more. He's a Winchester, which means he knows better than anyone that life is a horror story. And maybe it's _not_ rational to be afraid of leaving for five minutes to buy soup. Doesn't make Sam any more capable of ignoring the voice in his head telling him not to leave his family unguarded.

He's pacing the kitchen, bare feet on yellow tiles, when the doorbell rings.

"Lucy!" he says when he opens the door. "What can I do for you?"

"That's my line, dear," she says, shuffling past him into the house. Her hands are steady carrying a giant crock-pot.

Lucy lives next-door, and near as Sam can tell she's the most kindhearted busy-body that ever lived. He'd place her in her early sixties, though he's never felt right asking, and her head of gray hair glints in the sun alongside a smile just as bright. Her lawn is always perfect, her front stoop constantly littered with delivery packages, and she loves having the boys ride their bikes around her winding circle of driveway.

"How are the little ones?" she asks. Her eyes are warm as she watches him close and latch the front door.

"Still coughing up a storm," he says. "Not throwing up anymore, thank god."

"And that adorable husband of yours?"

Sam manages not to roll his eyes at the word 'adorable', but he can't help the blush, still an automatic reflex after so many years. Lucy doesn't catch it, too busy bustling into the kitchen to set the crock-pot on the counter. She rearranges things just slightly, just enough to plug it in and set it on low.

"He's just as bad," Sam finally answers. "And he whines a lot louder."

"I'll bet he does," says Lucy, smile bright and knowing. She helps herself to coffee and pours a second mug for Sam.

"What's in the pot?" he asks.

"Dinner," she says, a familiar glint in her eyes. "It should last you the next couple days. My grandmother's secret recipe for chicken noodle soup. It has magical qualities."

She says the last with a mysterious arch of the eyebrows, and for all Sam can tell she's completely serious. He smiles, but he doesn't laugh. They've sure as hell seen stranger things.

Magical qualities or not, it's pretty much the answer to his prayers, and he thanks Lucy a dozen times over by the time she bids her goodbyes. She throws a quick, bright smile over her shoulder as she heads down the walk.

Sam shakes his head and laughs softly as he closes the door, already gearing up for another round of sniffles and coughing and flu medicine. At least he'll have some magical soup to console them with. Sam remind himself that they can only be sick so long, and he's sure that any day now all three will be coming out the other end of a dark, phlegm-filled tunnel. When they get there, he'll be happy for an entire morning to himself.

For now, he locks the door and leans heavily against the wood for all of a moment. The etched texture of protective runes against his forehead calms and reassures him like nothing else.

He walks back into the kitchen, and with every step he ignores the small, taunting itch at the back of his own throat.

 

— // — || FIN || — \\\ —


End file.
